


breathing in your dust

by quoth_the_ravenclaw



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quoth_the_ravenclaw/pseuds/quoth_the_ravenclaw
Summary: Hanamaki is suddenly hyper aware of everything around them. The smoke, the haze, the scratch of Matsukawa's bedspread against his knees and the warmth of Matsukawa's palm at the base of his skull. The heat of the summer clings to them both, despite the frantic whirring or the fan in the corner, a heady weight they can't shake.The little fan in the corner spins and spins. Hanamaki breathes out and swears he can feel each oscillation of the blades. His skin was tingling before, but now it feels like it's on fire, everything hot and buzzing under his touch andoh,he wants to touch.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei
Comments: 20
Kudos: 191





	breathing in your dust

**Author's Note:**

> _Miranda Priestly voice:_ arctic monkeys lyrics? for a shotgunning fic? groundbreaking.
> 
> Many thanks to @OmnivorousWitch and @dagorhir for their help!

These are Hanamaki’s favorite kind of Saturday nights, clubs and bars forgotten in favor of convenience store booze in the comfort of Matsukawa’s apartment. There’s a curl of smoke already rising into the air, a record spinning away in the corner, some alt band he’s never heard of.

“C’mere,” Matsukawa says, leaning back into his hands and spreading his legs wide.

“What, you want a lapdance?” 

Matsukawa’s lips turn up in a lazy smirk. “Well if you're offering,” he says.

“Let me drink like three more beers and then we’ll talk,” Hanamaki says. As it is, the two he’s had warm his stomach and leave him feeling pleasantly full and tingly.

“I’ll hold you to it.” Matsukawa takes another hit. Hanamaki watches as he holds it in, lets his eyes slip shut _(fuck him and his fucking mile long eyelashes)_, and then breathes it out in a long, luxuriant stream. There's a moment of stillness where they just bask in the heady beat of the music and the rising heat of the smoke. Finally Matsukawa cracks open an eye to look at him. “Well, do you want to or not?”

“We’ve been over this. I'm hilariously bad at bowls,” Hanamaki says. For all his athletic accomplishments, he somehow can't manage to simultaneously hold the piece and flick the lighter, much to Matsukawa’s amusement. He gets far too much sadistic joy out of watching Hanamaki’s pathetic failures, which is why whenever Hanamaki is around he never just rolls a joint.

“I could just light it for you,” Matsukawa says with a teasing voice.

“Like I'm some freshman pledge who’s never seen weed before?”

“What does that make me?”

“The senior frat boy who preys on new meat.”

“Are you implying I’m corrupting you?”

“Absolutely.” Hanamaki says.

“I could,” Matsukawa says, and Hanamaki freezes at the sudden intensity of his stare. “If you wanted.”

His gaze is molten, steady and intent. A challenge. 

And, well, Hanamaki’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Okay,” He says.

Matsukawa smiles, eyes dark, and sits up to reach a hand out to Hanamaki. “C’mere,” he says.

This time, Hanamaki goes, lets himself be pulled into the space between Matsukawa’s thighs until he’s close enough to smell the musk of Matsukawa’s deodorant and day-old cologne underneath the heady scent of weed. He raises an eyebrow as if to say _well?_

Matsukawa keeps his gaze while he puts the bowl back up to his lips. His thumb flicks, a flame comes to life, and he inhales. Slow. Steady.

When he sets it down, instead of exhaling, he holds it in and lifts a hand (big, warm, calloused) to the back of Hanamaki’s neck and draws him close and _oh_, Hanamaki realizes, _he meant-_

Hanamaki is ready - too ready - when Matsukawa leans in and breathes out. 

Hanamaki inhales, feels the smoke settle at the back of his throat and tries not to cough. It’s better like this, he thinks, close and warm and easy. He exhales and catches the way Matsukawa’s eyelids lower as he breathes in.

Their mouths are barely an inch apart, everything too close _(not close enough)_, and Hanamaki is suddenly hyper aware of everything around them. The smoke, the haze, the scratch of Matsukawa's bedspread against his knees and the warmth of Matsukawa's palm at the base of his skull. The heat of the summer clings to them both, despite the frantic whirring or the fan in the corner, a heady weight they can't shake. 

The little fan in the corner spins and spins. Hanamaki breathes out and swears he can feel each oscillation of the blades. His skin was tingling before, but now it feels like it's on fire, everything hot and buzzing under his touch and _oh,_ he wants to touch.

“So?” Matsukawa says. He’s raising his eyebrows at Hanamaki, giving a look that's half question, half tease, wrapping his lips around the pipe to draw in another breath, and Hanamaki -

Hanamaki dives at him.

He scrambles into Matsukawa’s lap, hands wrapping around his neck and legs wrapping around his waist. This time, they’re close enough that when Matsukawa breathes out, Hanamaki feels the curl of his lips. Hanamaki breathes in, lets it warm his lungs. Hanamaki wants...

He just _wants_.

He exhales, feels Matsukawa’s lips against his, and then they're kissing, deep and easy and so, so good. The hand in his hair tightens, then pulls, and Hanamaki lets out a gasp.

“Yeah?” Matsukawa hums. Hanamaki can feel his smirk.

“Shut up.”

Matsukawa laughs, and it rumbles through his whole body. Hanamaki feels the shaking of his chest beneath his hands and he can't help but laugh too.

“Is this weird?” He asks.

“Should it be?” Matsukawa replies.

“I'm basically sitting on your dick.”

Matsukawa looks down.

“It’s a nice dick,” Hanamaki concedes.

A laugh crackles out of Matsukawa. Hanamaki can feel the way his chest vibrates with it, solid under his palm.

“Damn right,” Matsukawa says, curling his lips around the pipe again. Hanamaki watches, eagle-eyed focus honed down to this one thing. Matsukawa breathes in and Hanamaki can barely wait until he’s pulled away from the piece to lean in and kiss him again. Now that he knows he can, it’s all his brain can focus on, Matsukawa’s lips, Matsukawa’s neck, Matsukawa, Matsukawa, _Matsukawa_.

It’s Matsukawa who breaks it off, breath a shuddering gasp. _“‘Hiro,”_ He sighs, and Hanamaki’s gone. The piece drops, knocked away to somewhere on Matsukawa’s nightstand _(maybe probably who cares)_, and then suddenly Issei’s got two hand cupping his jaw, two hands pulling him forward, two hands marking his pulse as Takahiro’s heart stutters in his chest.

It feels like he’s underwater, everything heavy and nice and far away. Somehow he finds his breath, breaks through the surface to look Issei in the eyes. 

“Is this just because…” His voice drops off, lost in the weight of Issei’s gaze.

“Is it for you?” Matsukawa counters.

Hanamaki drops his eyes and shakes his head. The action makes his head spin, the haze of the room suddenly oppressive instead of liberating. “I- I can’t," He starts. He tries to shuffle backwards, make some distance, but his body won't cooperate. "If it's just… fun for you, I don't want…"

“Hiro,” Matsukawa says, and the hands cupping Hanamaki’s jaw tilts his head up to meet his gaze as he speaks, “You’ve never been _just fun_ to me.”

“Oh,” Hanamaki says.

“I thought you knew. Everyone else does.”

Hanamaki forces himself to look at Matsukawa, really look at him. He’s not smirking, not waggling his eyebrows, not grinning the way they both do when they’re about to pull a prank. He’s just staring back at him, face open and honest and painfully kissable.

“Me too,” Hanamaki says. “For you, I mean.”

“Can I kiss you again?” Matsukawa asks.

“You can kiss me any time you want.”

So Matsukawa does.

It’s easier this time, feels less like drowning and more like floating. Hanamaki’s brain is still hazy, but it makes everything feel slower, sweeter. He adjusts his hips and Matsukawa’s breath hitches under him, a hand clenching in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Again?” Hanamaki asks.

_“Please.”_

He rocks his hips down, intentionally this time, and the friction is good enough to make them both groan. Matsukawa’s mouth finds his neck, and Hanamaki can’t help the way his back arches at the sensation.

“More,” He hears himself say, and on the next grind down Matsukawa is thrusting his hips up. He can feel the heat of his dick ever through the fabric of his pants and it’s as intoxicating as the smoke.

There’s a thumb tracing the waistband of his boxers and suddenly Hanamaki is entirely too aware of how many clothes he’s wearing, how many clothes Matsukawa’s wearing. His hands scramble at the hem of Matsukawa’s henley. 

“Okay?” He breathes. 

Matsukawa nods against his cheek, forehead coming down to rest against the stutter of Hanamaki’s pulse in his throat.

“Weren’t you gonna dance for me?” He asks, lips glancing against his adam’s apple and making Hanamaki’s heart do all kinds of things.

“Next time,” Hanamaki says, partially to tease, and partially to reaffirm _there will be a next time_. “For now, how about I just make you come?”

Matsukawa chokes. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He gets Matsukawa’s shirt off, traces his fingers over the fine hair on his chest. Mastukawa’s lips find his throat and begin sucking a bruise that will be impossible to hide in the morning. Hanamaki fingers dance down Matsukawa’s ribs, and he finds he doesn’t care, lets his head tip back for more.

The waistband of Matsukawa’s jeans is soft and worn, and the button and zipper give easily. They both gasp as Hanamaki finally gets a hand around his cock.

Matsukawa’s teeth graze his pulse as hands find his hips. “Wanna make you feel good too,” He whispers into the hollow of Hanamaki’s throat.

“You do.”

Matsukawa’s hands guide his rhythm as he jerks Matsukawa off and ruts against his thigh at the same time. It’s messy and uncoordinated and probably not sexy, but Hanamaki can’t find it in himself to give a shit when Matsukawa groans against his throat.

Their panting and the wet slide of his palm become the only sounds in the room, and Hanamaki can only see the sweat on Matsukawa’s collarbone, only smell the exhale of his breath, hot on Hanamaki’s cheek, only feel the heft of Matsukawa in his hand. He wants to come, but more than that, he wants _Matsukawa _to come, wants to watch him fall apart, wants to be the cause.

He jerks faster, ruts his hips against Matsukawa’s thigh, and listens as he gasps and stills under his hands. Matsukawa is silent as he comes, nothing but unsteady breaths as his hips jerk up into Hanamaki’s fist. He makes a mess of them both, and Hanamaki doesn’t feel bad when he reaches down to wipe his hand on Matsukawa’s bedspread.

Matsukawa’s fingers tug at the baby hairs at the base of his neck before trailing down to the base of his spine, settling there steady and warm. He leans up, all in Takahiro’s space, and breathes into his ear.

“Come on, ‘Hiro, you too.”

Hanamaki comes embarassingly fast, grinding against the hard muscle of Matsukawa’s thigh and moaning into his chest.

Matsukawa works him through it, rubbing hot circles against his spine and whispering hot nothings into his ear. “_So good_,” He murmurs, and Hanamaki just bites his lip and nods.

They end up horizontal, lying on Matsukawa’s bed the wrong way. His neck must be uncomfortable, pushed up against the wall and crooked at an awkward angle the way it is, but Hanamaki’s too hazy between the pot and the orgasm to give a shit. Matsukawa’s hand is still at his back, slipped up under the cotton of his shirt to burn the brand of his thumbprint into Hanamaki’s skin.

Hanamaki lets himself drift, giving in for once to the treacherous stirrings in his chest. Matsukawa is warm and firm underneath him, and for now that’s enough.

He hears the hiss of a lighter and glances up to see Matsukawa bringing a cigarette to his lips.

“Seriously?” He asks. His voice vibrates against the hollow of Matsukawa’s sternum.

Matsukawa looks down and gives him a lazy grin.

“You’d need one too if you knew how you look when you come.”

Hanamaki thinks his rolls his eyes, but honestly he’s not sure, drifting is this easy space between buzzed and satiated. He rubs his cheek into Matsukawa’s chest and places a lazy kiss above his nipple. He feels it when Matsukawa huffs out a laugh and this time looks up to see him smiling down too, too fondly.

Hanamaki meets his gaze, feels himself smile back.

Matsukawa’s face cracks into a grin, lascivious and familiar.

“So,” He says, taking another drag. “About that lap dance…”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for playing


End file.
